


Drabbles and Deleted Scenes

by Juliska



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliska/pseuds/Juliska
Summary: I always come up with scenes and stuff I should have added to stories before I published them.  So, they're going here.  Most will be for my main story Catastrophe, but there will be some short little drabbles as well that don't quite fit in.





	1. Deleted Scene:  Fel Always Exacts a Price

**Author's Note:**

> This would have fit into the Winter Veil chapter of Catastrophe.

Author's Note:  Kael'thas, Winter Veil, and other stuff is copywrite Blizzard Entertainment, used without permission.  
  
#

Phogrim stretched as he sat at the table across from his mother and sister.  They were drinking tea and talking quietly, although his mother kept glancing back at the hammock situated along the wall.  The young blood elf guest was laying on it, fast asleep and covered up with some furs so only a tuft of her black hair and her long ears peeked out the top.    
  
The girl had sheepishly whispered that she was tired from her travels and tried to excuse herself, but was assured it was fine - his mother had extra beds in her hut to care for injured soldiers or women who were about to give birth.  They could accommodate a guest during the Feast of Winter Veil.  
  
“Such odd allies we’ve found, mother,” Seneda said quietly.  “They’re so fragile looking.  What did the Warchief expect to do with them?”  
  
“Don’t underestimate them, dear.  They’re fierce fighters when need be.  They were valuable for the Alliance and I’m sure they will be for the Horde as well,” Kirdika replied.  “Thrall knows what he’s doing.  He wishes the Horde is to be a bastion for the forsaken and lost, and their people have lost more than most.”  
  
Kirdika paused for a moment, still looking back at the young elf, then sighed.  “I’m not so sure about her own . . . Chieftain, though.”  
  
“The Prince?  Kael’thas?” Seneda asked.  When her mother nodded, she shrugged.  “They seem to love him.  Almost worship him.”  
  
“That’s what I’m afraid of.  Your little friend’s eyes burn with the fel.”  
  
Phogrim frowned.  “It doesn’t seem to hurt them.  And it’s not like they’re drinking demon blood.  She doesn’t seem like someone under the blood curse.  She seems . . . gentle.”  
  
“The fel always exacts a price, child,” Kirdika said quietly.  “They may not be under the blood haze, but it is a magic born of death.”  
  
Seneda sighed.  “I think they’re just desperate.  They said the withdrawal is excruciating.”  
  
“And there is a special place in the Nether for those who take advantage of suffering to convince them to turn to the fel,” Kirdika said, taking another drink of her tea.  “They believe their Light has abandoned them, just as we believed the elements abandoned us.  They are walking our same path.  What else do they say about this . . . Prince?”  
  
“Most of them haven’t seen him in a long time,” Phogrim said.  “She said that the ones strong enough to go journeyed to Outland with him, to find new sources of power and a new homeland.”  
  
“Daughter, tell me.  Do you think Outland is the paradise he’s promised them?”  
  
The younger woman sighed.  “No.  The world is dying still, and infused with the Legion’s influence.”  
  
“Well, Belidora doesn’t seem to like him that much.  Well, I mean, she doesn’t say anything bad about him…” Phogrim started until his sister sighed.  
  
“I don’t think they can.  Dissent is . . . not tolerated in their society,” Seneda said quietly.  “Remember the Kor’kron back at the tavern complaining about the Warchief?  That would not be allowed where she’s from, from what I’ve heard, at least.”  The warrior sighed.  “It scared her, remember?”  
  
Kirdika shook her head slightly.  “Like I told you two, they are following our path.  I wish they could only see that,” she said quietly, setting the cup down and standing up.  She smiled sadly over at her son and daughter.  “I’m proud of you both, and you’re becoming an excellent healer, Phogrim.”  
  
He looked at her, confused.  “I haven’t done anything.”  
  
“You brought someone badly wounded to me today and helped her.”  
  
“She’s fine.  She’s not wounded.”  
  
“Oh, she is wounded, shaman.  Not all wounds bleed,” she said, giving him a kiss on his forehead.  


	2. Cultural Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be true to where Catastrophe goes, but here's the night before the Tomb of Sargares. Slight spoilers if you aren't caught up in that story, but whatever.

Author’s Note:  World of Warcraft:  Legion, places, characters, and settings are copyright Blizzard Entertainment and used without permission or profit being made.  
  
#  
  
Justin Crawford clenched the bottom of his Legionfall tabard in his fists and stared off of the ledge at the soldiers below.  He was a few short weeks from his twentieth year, and he was not entirely sure that he was going to see it.  
  
No.  He knew he wasn’t.  
  
The young paladin sighed and closed his eyes until he heard the sound of boots behind him.  He opened them and glanced up to see a female blood elf, similarly dressed as him, staring at him with her one eye while holding a cup in her hand.  
  
“What’s the matter with you?” Belidora asked quietly.  
  
“I’ve been chosen to go on the assault tomorrow.  To the Tomb,” he said quietly, looking back over the ledge.  He looked up this time, toward the massive building in the distance.  Demons were surely storming out of it even now.  “I’m going to die.”  
  
“Me too,” she said, plopping down on her rear next to him, amazingly managing not to spill her beer.  “And yeah, we probably will.”  
  
He frowned at her.  “You’re not very reassuring.”  
  
“I’m honest.  It’s one of my best qualities,” she said, sipping from her cup.  “The way I see it, we either die fighting to seal the Tomb or we die cowering from the Legion.”  She looked at him and must have seen the fear in his face, because she sighed.  “Phogrim and Jof’re going too.  They like you, so at least you’ll have some people who can heal you.  That has to count for something.  And if we do die . . . well, maybe they’ll build a statue of you in the Valley of Heroes.”  
  
“Yeah.  I won’t be there to see it,” he said sadly.  “Do they build statues in your cities?”  
  
“We do.  The western Horde doesn’t.  See it as waste of resources, I guess,” she said.  “They view death in battle differently.  Not wrong, just differently.  The orcs have this thing called lok’vadnod.  Songs of heroism.  They have them about Broxigar the Red, about the heroes who died in the war against the Lich King.  If we seal that Tomb . . . they will sing of us for thousands of years.”  
  
Justin forced a weak smile and looked back down at the soldiers below him.  They were working in a frenzy to get everything ready for the next day.  He rubbed his forehead.  “I wrote a letter to my parents in case . . .”  
  
“That’s good,” Belidora said, cutting him off.  “Hopefully they’ll never have to read it.  But it’s a good thing to prepare for that.”  She sighed.  “I wish I had gotten a chance to . . . well, you know.”  She leaned her head on the wooden railing in front of them and seemed to be watching the soldiers as well.  “It’s a sad world we live in, but there’s still a lot of good in it.  Look.”  She pointed toward the edge of the lower cliff.  
  
Two death knights, an elf and a human, spoke to each other.  Justin looked at her suspiciously.  “Death knights?  That’s not a good thing.”  He thought of telling her about the . . . incident at the Light’s Hope Chapel, but decided against it when she rolled her eye at him.  
  
“Koltira and Thassarian,” she said quietly, smiling.  “Two lovers in the middle of an apocalypse.”  
  
“ _Lovers_?” he blurted out.  “Thassarian is Koltira’s lover?  But he’s a . . .”  
  
“Human.  I know.  I never understood the attraction,” she said.  She looked over at him and quickly added.  “No offense.  You guys look fine but it’s just the whole lifespan difference and . . .”  
  
“That’s not exactly what I was talking about,” Justin said.  
  
The young blood elf looked at him oddly, as if she did not grasp it at all, when he finally sighed.  “They’re both men.”  
  
She squinted at him slightly and smiled.  “And?” she asked teasingly.  When he opened his mouth to say something, she shook her head.  “That’s not uncommon in Quel’thalas, kid, amongst the men or women.  In fact, favoring one or the other exclusively is what is a little odd.”  
  
“We approach it with a bit more . . . discreetness,” he said quietly, blushing slightly.  He frowned when he realized she was still snickering slightly at his embarrassment.  He decided to turn the tables.  “And what about you?  Which do you prefer?  You must have a preference.”  
  
She looked at him coyly and scooted over, giving him a kiss on his flushed cheek.  “Why would I deny myself half of this world’s pleasure?” she whispered in his ear, pulling herself back to her feet and smiling down at him.  “The boys and I are going to Dalaran to get drunk.  No better way to spend the night before fighting demons.  You are welcome to come join us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is she telling the truth? Is she just messing with the sweet boy?
> 
> You decide. ;)
> 
> Also kind of ripped off Game of Thrones there.


	3. Decisions Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor spoilers for Warrior order hall campaign (basically just the first part).
> 
> Eitrigg is concerned about his friend's decision and decides to enlist some surprising help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided there wasn't enough Saurfang love on here.
> 
> Also, practicing writing lore characters some more. Let me know how I did in the comments.

_Author’s Note: Varok Saurfang, Lor’themar Theron, etc. are trademark Blizzard Entertainment, used without permission or profit._

#

Varok Saurfang pulled off his neck guard and sat down heavily on the steps leading up to the throne in Grommash Hold. He rubbed his shoulder and winced. _Landed on it wrong_ , he thought. Of course, there was no real right way to crash land a wyvern onto a demon-saturated beach.

Eitrigg had said nothing when he finally made his way back to Dalaran after stealing one of the Legion’s flying discs. Instead, his old friend had simply sighed in what he could only assume was relief and shook his head at him, leaving him be. Really, Saurfang was secretly a bit relieved they were not going to have that conversation, at least not yet. Slaying the demons on the Broken Shore had been cathartic and he did not want to dwell on whether it was the right decision or not.

The old orc kept rubbing his shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment when he heard a light knock on the edge of the hold’s entrance. He opened his eyes to see the outline of a blood elf against the blaring sun shining into the building. As the figure stepped forward, he slowly recognized him.

“Ah, Regent Lord, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Eitrigg asked me to talk to you.”

Saurfang growled slightly. “He can’t come speak with me himself?”

The elf shrugged slightly. “He does not believe that you will listen to him. Seems he was right.”

The orc glowered. “I appreciate your concern, Theron, but I do not need to be counseled like some petulant child.”

The blood elf walked over to a chair in the corner and, without being invited, sat down on it, looking at him. “You went on what was tantamount to a suicide mission. I guess it is a testament to your prowess that it was not one for you. It would have been for most anyone else,” he said bluntly. When Saurfang still glowered at him, he said. “Do not be so angry at your comrade. He saw one of his closest friends burned alive days ago. He was probably terrified of hearing the same of you.”

Varok finally frowned at that and looked down slightly. He . . . had not considered that, he had to admit to himself. Tirion had saved Eitrigg’s life and the orc considered him as a brother, Varok knew. Now he had lost his family all over again.

The elf did not seem content to stop laying on the guilt. “What’s worse, you brought a promising young warrior with you on your suicide mission.”

“It was her decision. She asked to accompany me.”

“Of course she did. She’s a Darkspear,” he said. “I’m sure you could walk outside of here now and ask any one of them to accompany you and they would eagerly accept.” The elf grimaced. “I know the need for revenge is great . . .”

“It was about honor, not simple revenge.”

“. . . But Vol’jin would not have wanted us to encourage such behavior of his own people,” Lor’themar continued, airily brushing past the interruption. “He sacrificed a great deal to keep the Horde alive. Thank the Light that he was perceptive enough to realize when the battle was lost out there. We do not need to be squandering what he managed to save.” He paused slightly. “I heard that she made it back to Dalaran, at least.”

Saurfang let his expression relax slightly until he shifted and a fresh pain shot through his shoulder. “Too many of our people died out there,” the orc muttered. “So many young warriors and we gained nothing from it. What purpose did it serve?” He looked at the elf, who seemed to be simply regarding him and letting him speak, and sighed. “With all due respect, Regent Lord, you can’t understand. As an orc . . . I should have died out there, not some young whelp who had barely bloodied his blade before. Who had never felt the joy of a child at his knee.” His own words were like a sword in his heart, and he grimaced. “I have lived a long life. I deserve an honorable death in battle.”

To his surprise, Lor’themar spoke. “You think I’ve never thought of it?” the elf said quietly, almost too quiet to hear.

Saurfang looked back up, and Lor’themar continued. “I thought about it every day for years. When they were burning the bodies to keep them from being raised again, and when I saw the grief when parents learned what happened to their little children, the ones we tried to send away to safety.” At that point, the elf’s voice cracked slightly, but he quickly gathered himself. When he spoke again, it was steady. “I wanted nothing more than to go out into the forest and slay every walking corpse I could until I got what I thought I deserved for my mistake.”

Saurfang started to speak, but Lor’themar slowly continued. “But I never did. I know the burden you face. You have the protection of most of Durotar in your hands. That is why you must not pursue such an action again without reason,” he said firmly, but the slight arrogance from his voice was gone now, replaced with emotional fatigue. “Someone has to look out for the orcs’ best interests and protection. I would not rely on . . . our new Warchief for such things.”


	4. Infimary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers up through chapter 4 of Catastrophe, and takes place immediately following it and prior to chapter 5.

Author’s Note: World of Warcraft: Legion is copyright Blizzard Entertainment, used without permission or profit.

#

Mork Frosthorn had never much cared for humans. He had spent too many years in the internment camps to hold anything but disdain for them. He certainly did not trust them, and especially not with some helpless young Horde soldiers. Especially not after what the Alliance had done to the three.

So, he found himself a seat in the corner of the Dalaran infirmary and watched quietly as the woman went about her duties. She worked quickly, waving her hands over some magical sensors and obscuring his view of them, one at a time. He at first protested about it, but she had quickly explained it was so she could get them out of their tattered, ruined clothes and into something warm and comfortable.

He had to admit, she seemed incredibly gentle with them.

“Tell me. What really happened to them?” she asked quietly, gently unwrapping the soiled bandage from the blood elf’s eye.

“Told you. They got hurt in a battle in Azsuna,” Mork said, his voice curt. He got up slowly and limped over to check on it and a growl escaped his throat. It was a grievous, disfiguring wound. He could think of nothing she could have done that would have justified it.

“I think we both know that’s not true,” the woman replied quietly, reaching over to her basin and grabbing a clean cloth, gently cleaning away the dried blood. The girl was mercifully still asleep from the potion. The human sighed and dried the patient’s face, then reached over for some purple silk dressings to re-wrap the eye. “This happened over the course of days, if not weeks. I don’t think any commander in the Horde would let their men suffer without any sort of treatment for that long.” She smoothed some of the girl’s dirty hair out of her face. “And if it were the Legion who did this, you would not be lying to me.”

“I . . . I’m not supposed to say,” Mork said quietly.

The human sighed. “That’s fine. I won’t press you on it. I don’t want to get you into any trouble,” she said quietly. “My name is Kaliyah, by the way. Kaliyah Gale.”

“Mork Frosthorn.”

“Well met, although I’m sure you wish it were under different circumstances,” she said, going and tending to the young troll shaman next. She reached over to her tray and grabbed a jar of antiseptic, beginning to clean his many wounds. “What are these three to you? Just comrades from your camp?”

“Customers,” Mork grunted quietly. “I run a tavern back in Orgrimmar. They’re good kids. Tip well.”

She smiled back at him for a moment before continuing with her cleaning. “You are sitting here, watching them like a hawk, because they tip well? Most people just drop the wounded off here and go back to what they’re doing. You stayed.”

The old warrior sighed and glanced over the three sleeping soldiers. Finally, he said quietly. “Got young ones myself. Little ones, not grown up like them, but still. If something happened to my kids, I would want someone to look out for them.”

“Boys or girls?”

“One of each. Twins.”

She smiled at him. “I have a little boy. He wants to be a paladin when he gets older,” she said quietly, finishing with the troll and rubbing his face gently, getting up to go to the orc next. “It worries me, but it’s a hard world.” She grabbed the wounded orc’s hand and lifted it up with some difficulty. Her hand barely wrapped around a few of his fingers. “Mr. Frosthorn?”

Mork grunted slightly in an acknowledgement that she should continue.

“I’m not going to ask you who did this to them,” she said quietly. “Just make sure that they don’t do it to anyone else.” Her voice sounded strange, a bit heartbroken and disturbed at the same time.

Mork looked over at her and nodded his head slowly. “You have my word.”


End file.
